


Bury Me in Satin

by eyesonfire



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Charactor Death, M/M, this doesnt really have a happy ending idk someone stop me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 18:00:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyesonfire/pseuds/eyesonfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He tastes a burning, desperate longing, sharp against his tongue and shuts his eyes against it, because life isn’t fair and wishing never helped anyone.</p><p>Or the one in which Louis is dying and shuts himself off from everyone he loves the most and then it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bury Me in Satin

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "If I Die Young,' The Band Perry

~

~The sharp knife of a short life, well, I’ve had just enough time~

~

 

He’s denied it. He’s refused to accept it, he’s walked out of that cold, white room in denial because this didn’t happen to people like him. He denied it for so long, he refused to believe that what he was being told was anything but a horrible lie. Denying facts takes a lot of energy. Louis didn’t have a lot of energy anymore. He trembled and shook and screamed with his disbelief, his assurances that this was all an awful, awful misunderstanding. It wasn’t. He’s accused the kind man in the harsh white coat of lying, of joking, of fucking around and none of it made him feel better because he could feel it. A creeping awareness, a voice in his head saying ‘maybe…’ and he hated it. He didn’t want to accept it, he wanted nothing more than to shut his eyes and block his ears and never hear those final words ever again. He wanted to rock in the corner, fighting off any thought or man or scan that would try to tell him that this was real, not a sick practical joke but he couldn’t. He was a man now, not a child and he had to hold his head up and grit his teeth and not cry even as his world and his dreams crashed around his feet.

Then, he’d been angry. So angry, all the time. It wasn’t fair, there was so much wrong with this and he wished for a sick moment that it was happening to someone else, anyone else. He cursed every name and every face and every deity. Bitterly hated the kind man in the white, bitterly hated the small children on the street and their smiling parents. Hated the ones that didn’t smile even more. They didn’t know how lucky they had it. What reason did they have not to smile? He’d thrown things and smashed things and they’d cut his hand and nothing made him feel better. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right and the blood on his hand stared up at him, an innocent reminder of the deadly truth. He wanted answers, demanded them but there was nothing he could be told and it made him angrier, those placid ‘we just don’t know’s and the ‘I’m very sorry Mr Tomlinson’s. He would smash things until he didn’t have the energy, breaking down into huge, heaving, furious sobs and his weakness, his tears made him angrier.

He’d bargained. He’d have traded anything, everything. He promised he’d stopped drinking, he’d eat healthily, he’d be a good brother to his sisters and the perfect son to his mother. He bargained he’d love Harry and that he’d stay with the band forever and he prayed to every deity. No one was listening. He bargained that he’d leave the band, he’d give it up, if that’s what was wanted. He’d give up anything. He became desperate. He’d never see his family again, if needed. He’d give up his fame and money and cars and Harry. Even Harry, who meant more than the world to him. He prayed and he promised and he pled and he realised he was alone. He traded and he swapped and he wished, so hard, on every star and nothing happened, nothing changed.

He’d realised then. What it all meant. That there was no way out of this, no thing he could trade, no person he could give up. He was stuck, trapped, cursed and he felt sick. There was no way out and there was no way to change this and it was too much. He found himself at the bottom of a bottle, and another and he found nothing at the end but more sorrow. The burn in his throat did nothing to chase away the pain and the knowledge and the truth and he drank more. He retched, the alcohol settling heavy in his stomach and he woke with vomit and blood on his pillow. The sky was always grey now. The sun was heavy and low and there was no warmth. He slept alone, cold. Everything was wrong, cold, and he’d been down to the bottom of every bottle. It seemed like the end, a miserable, pathetic end, drinking to oblivion but still never able to forget, waking up in sheets soaked in sweat and piss and vomit and he couldn’t find it in him to care.

Acceptance sinks in, slow and painful. It was opening his eyes after a long sleep, it was finally seeing what he should have from the start. It should have been raw and painful and he should have been bitter and angry but he didn’t have the energy. It was a calm, cold acceptance now. He slices at the strings connecting him to people, stopping them from caring or wondering. He blows people off, finding excuses to not go out and not go home, just stay in the flat, curled on the couch, drowning in pain and missing Harry. He’s had weeks off work, he hasn’t had visitors in longer and he feels thankful that they haven’t seen him like this, that they won’t. He’s accepted that he can’t see people, that they need to stay away because the less close they are to him, the less it’s going to hurt them.

~

Louis doesn’t want to look at the way his heart shatters in those expressive green eyes, doesn’t want to see the way his face crumples and his lip quivers. But he does, he can’t avoid it and he thinks that Harry’s face as he breaks his heart will be burned into his eyes until he dies. His words have a finality, a certainty that Louis isn’t sure he could have managed without knowing his own final certainty. Louis hates every second of it, every second of this last conversation, he absolutely loathes it but he shoves that back behind a cold, hard mask and grits his teeth. Harry’s eyes are glittering with tears now, his lips trembling. His hands are clenched. Harry isn’t letting this go without a fight. It makes Louis fight harder, act colder, be stronger, because this is what’s best for Harry and the world. He needs to start distancing himself now. To save the pain of later. Finally, awfully, horribly, Harry accepts it. He nods, and they both break, and Harry leaves. Louis stands alone in their flat, the warmth leaving with Harry, the silence awful and complete until the door slams. Louis flinches.

~

The guilt sets in. It’s inevitable. Unavoidable. Predictable. Sickening. It roils in his gut, burns behind his eyes. It’s the lump in his throat, it’s the knife in his stomach. It curls at the base of his spine, sending its icy chills up his back. He’s always cold now. Never warm. Like when he left Harry he left the sun. No warmth and no sunshine and Louis deserves it all. He reasons with himself, justifies and explains and his cold logic makes him feel no better. He tastes a burning, desperate longing, sharp against his tongue and shuts his eyes against it, because life isn’t fair and wishing never helped anyone.

~

 

Harry doesn’t smile now. His smile, his dimples, the way his eyes lit up, they were Louis’ favourite things about him. They’re gone now, and it’s a cold fist to the gut every time Harry half shrugs or twists his lips in a sick mockery of a smile. Louis wishes he could do something, anything to bring the smile back, to put the shine back in Harry’s eyes and the glow back on his cheeks but then he remembers he’s the one that stole them and any right he had to wish or touch or fix Harry is gone now. Its sick, the way Harry’s lips don’t curve up anymore and Louis wishes he could scream at him, that he could take the younger boy and shake him, yell that it wasn’t supposed to be like this, he was meant to mope and then move on, he was meant to get over it and be happy, be better and why is he acting like this but he can't. He can’t speak to Harry. The younger boy wont acknowledge him and there is a steel knife in his throat when he looks at Harry.

~

 

Louis hasn’t shaved in a week. He’s living off two minute noodles and junk food and sitting on the couch but he’s lost weight. His ribs stick out now, and he idly pokes at them. He’d always wanted to be thinner. He’s surrounded by junk food packets and abandoned take out containers and he wearing Harry’s hoody and a pair of his boxers. They were the things Harry left behind. They still smelled like him. Louis feels the ache in his chest grow with each breathe of Harry’s scent, and the loneliness in his stomach lurch when the smell of Harry starts to be chased away by his own. The TV isn’t playing. He’s turned it off. Everything reminds him of Harry. He feels tears welling up behind his eyelids and he clenches them tight and refuses to let them fall because he’d made this decision and it was for the best and he had no right to cry.

~

Harry’s eyes don’t see him anymore. When they’re on stage or in the studio or at interviews, Harry will look anywhere but at him. His eyes slide from Zayn to Liam to Niall. Louis is an empty space in the middle. It’s a kick to the throat each time. But it’s nothing less than Louis deserves. Harry’s eyes used to glow when they looked at him, used to light with adoration and love and lust. Now they’re cold and empty and Louis feels sick regret but tells himself that Harry is young and that the cold will be chased out by warmth again. Someone will replace these dead eyes with Harry’s old ones. And Louis feels a cool comfort when he knows he won’t be around to see that. He’s not sure if he could handle seeing Harry look at another the way he once looked at Louis. No less than he deserves, Louis bitterly reminds himself as Harry’s eyes flick across him like he’s a stretch of wall, a piece of floor. Like he’s nothing. And it’s a cold realisation that he is. And soon, he’ll be less than nothing. He waits.

~

Louis feels it before he can see it. Feels it sliding sickly in his veins and in his bones, a constant heavy presence. A ticking clock. It weighs him down, makes his limbs clumsy and dead. He feels it growing and expanding, coating his bones and pushing them out of joint. He feels it gliding silkily through his blood, poisoning, twisting, tainting. It creeps up his throat, bile and blood and he retches until his stomach is empty and his throat is raw. He feels his time ticking, minutes slipping away and seconds counting down. He feels it tugging at him, dragging him down and under and he doesn’t fight it. Then he can see it, in the bags under his eyes and the shallowness of his skin, his sunken cheeks and the way his ribs protrude. It’s in the dull of his eyes; it’s the angry bruises up his spine. The way his skin is paper thin and tears and bleeds and bruises at the slightest contact. It’s in the yellow and red streaked basin when he’s got nothing left to retch. It’s in the way he shivers even when he’s under four blankets. It’s in the way he refuses to cry, the way he refuses to miss anyone or anything or his stolen future. His hourglass is nearly run out, the sand is running through, slipping through his fingers and he barely fights to catch it because there’s no point.

~

Harry isn’t moving on and it rips at Louis heart. He refuses to think that he made a mistake because it was better this way; he loved Harry too much to make him suffer with him. He wouldn’t steal away Harry’s life with his own, wouldn’t make him suffer the indignity of caring for a dying boyfriend. He wouldn’t leave an imprint like that, he refused. And so even when Harry looks miserable and beaten and sick he clenches his teeth and turns his eyes because Harry would move on, and Harry would be happier without him and his ghost.

~

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. They’d had their future planned out, and it was glorious. They would have finished this tour, they would’ve come out, finally, amazingly, as a couple. They would have either stay with the band, propelled into even more success by the publicity of their announcement or they would’ve faded out, the band would split into solo careers and friends and they would be normal. They would get married, somewhere out in the countryside and they would sell their place in London for a small house somewhere further out. They would have their families over for Sunday dinners, and they would have the boys over to watch the game and have a few every so often. They would have a baby, or more, and Gemma had already volunteered to be their surrogate. They would call their little girl Darcy, their little boy Lucas. They would raise a family, they would be normal and it would be perfect. They would see their children grow up, graduate, fall in love, have their own families. Harry and he would grow old together, in a small house, somewhere far away, with a garden full of roses.

Louis refuses to allow himself to mourn the loss of this future. Louis refuses to miss Darcy and Lucas, the babies that never were but were so real in their heads. Louis refuses to regret that he’d never be married, never have their children, never grow old with Harry. He’s accepted his fate, and he mourns only for the living. He wishes he could change things only for Harry, only for that sweet boy who he loved more than anything. But he couldn’t. Things were final, set in stone, and Harry deserved so much more than being the one the with dead boyfriend. He needed to be able to move on, not carry around Louis’ ghost everywhere. This future had become an impossibility from the instant the doctor had said the words that had changed Louis’ fate, sent him crashing down, his world on fire.

“I’m very sorry Mr Tomlinson. You have cancer.”

~

 

It’s nearly time and Louis gives himself one last show. The concealer almost can’t cover the evidence user his eyes, the makeup can’t make his skin look healthy. Louis sees the question and pity in the other’s eyes and watches them attribute it to the break up and turn away. Louis knows they’re all firmly on Harry’s side and he appreciates small miracles because if they hate him it means they’ll miss him less. They’ll move on faster. They’ll comfort Harry and each other and tell themselves their better off without him as go on with their lives. Their long, healthy lives, and jealousy flashes through him, a wildfire. It burns out as quickly as it came, because he doesn’t have the energy to sustain any strong emotion these days. Regret nips at his heels as he leaves the dressing room, and he feels chastised for envying the others. This was his lot in life. His burden to bear. He’d had a good twenty one years and if fate or god or karma or the world demanded his life as payment for all the good he’d had, he was okay with that. He had eighteen years of good memories, families and friends and four years of even better ones, Harry and the boys and fame and music and he peacefully accepted that all this good was justification for an early death.

He’s on stage now, and shoves all thoughts of dying and death out of his mind. This time is for the fans, for the boys. It’s not for him. There is time for mourning and reflections later. When you’re given a deadline, you don’t go skydiving; you don’t finish your bucket list. You spend it quietly and bitterly with friends and family, you rage and you deny and you cry and finally you accept, and it’s not glamorous, it’s not dignified, its vomit and piss and fear and snot and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

~

 

He can no longer jump so high, can’t sing so loud and he can’t smile so wide but he pushes through, determination and memories of how healthy people act pulling him through and he gulps back vomit. He focuses on one smiling face, the girl laughing through tear tracks on her face and she stands out in the crowd. She’s jumping and singing along and she can’t be much older than the twins. She’s gorgeous, and so, so happy and Louis feels a pang of regret that he’ll never have children. The edges of his vision are blurring now, and he knows his time has nearly run out. If life’s just an hourglass glued to the table then his sand is nearly all at the bottom now, and he stares at the young girl until her face is the only thing clear in the stadium. She has Harry’s smile now, as wide as the ocean, his dimples and his cheeks, but she somehow has his cheekbones and her eyes are his blue. Curly hair dances across her forehead, and it’s the colour of molten caramel. The colour of his hair. She’s his, and she’s Harry’s. She’s everything that Louis could once have had and she’s like a kick to the gut. Tears burn in his eyes as Darcy twirls. There’s no one else here now, the spotlights on the girl. She’s no older than five now, and she stops dancing. She’s still smiling, peacefully, calmly and her arms are stretched towards Louis.  
“Daddy,” she calls to him, wanting to be picked up. Louis finds he can’t move. His limbs are concrete, weighed down and he struggles furiously.  
“Daddy!” She calls again; she seems to be moving further away, fading slightly.  
“Hold on baby, Daddy’s coming!” Louis yells frantically as he furiously tugs at his bonds. There’s something holding him down but when he looks at his body there’s nothing there. It’s him, it’s his body and it won’t move. He needs to get to Darcy, but his limbs won’t obey his commands.  
“It’s time to go, Daddy,” Darcy says, her voice fading on a breeze. “Why aren’t you coming?”  
“I’m trying baby! I’ll be there real soon okay? Real soon!” His voice cracks and there are tears thick in his throat.  
“Why aren’t you coming?” Darcy repeats and her voice is far away. She’s small in the distance now, a lone figure, her hair wild and curly and her limbs chubby with the grip of youth.  
“Darcy!” Louis screams, blind panic and fear clutching at his chest and it constricts. He can’t breathe. He can’t move. He can only watch as his daughter is taken from him and calls for him. His heart breaks. He fights harder, pulling and pushing and writhing and tugging but nothing budges and nothing moves and he’s trapped and he can breathe.  
“Daddy!” Darcy calls, and he can barely hear her. She is still calm, her voice sad and confused as if she’s wondering why her daddy won’t come. Because not once had her Daddy ever ignored her when she called.  
“I’m trying, baby!” Louis sobs as his daughter fades, pulled away by the breeze and dissolving into nothing.  
“Darcy!” He’s screaming now, his throat raw and his limbs thick. Wild anger burns in him, panic and fear and rage and he wants his daughter back. 

And then he’s being shaken and he blinks and it’s all gone, he can move and breathe and the girl is older again, straight hair and brown eyes and Louis’ heart shatters and he can’t understand what happened. He nods and smiles and bluffs his way through the concert and his head is whirling and his heart is on fire with a desperate longing he never knew he had. It’s the most he’s felt in weeks, the burn in his heart and he’s no longer numb or sick, he’s wild and furious and begging. It doesn’t fade, doesn’t wear out and as Louis’ head starts to spin and the edges of his vision curls black, stars spotting in his eyes, he understands. He wasn’t meant to go to Darcy yet. She was coming to collect him. She was giving him a last few minutes with his four boys, his family, his love.

~

 

Louis collapses after the show. He closes his eyes and regrets only that the boys would see him like this. He can’t see but he can hear. He can hear panic and stress and fear and above all he can hear Harry. He can always hear Harry. But not like this. He hears him, fear and panic in his voice and he wishes he could block it out, wishes he couldn’t hear because he doesn’t want to make Harry sound like this. He wants Harry happy and whole and smiling, and he sounds like he’s breaking. And just as his face as Louis broke his heart is seared into Louis vision, he knows Harry’s voice now will be burned into his ears until he dies. It won’t be long now. He feels no pain. It’s noticeable in its absence. Pain has been his constant for months. He feels like he’s floating, detached. Dimly he’s aware of being lifted, carried to a waiting ambulance, of Harry insisting he ride with him. He’s aware of Harry grabbing his hand and holding it tight. He can’t feel it, but the phantom touch is enough for him to clutch a memory of how it felt when Harry held his hand like this. He feels peace. He would be gone soon, Harry would mourn and move on, the boys would cry but then stand, walk strong and tall and proud and they didn’t need him. He’ll watch them, he knows. If he can. Wherever the after is. If there is one. He’ll watch the boys, he’ll watch Harry for as long as he can and he’ll be waiting there when Harry finally joins him.

~

 

He feels nothing now, he can’t see. He tastes only blood in his mouth. The noises and voices around him a wavering, a badly tuned radio. He smells blood and piss and the sharp antiseptic of a hospital. It’s too late. He’s being held here by only fingertips. Harry’s fingertips in his own. Voices rush above him in a blur of noise and panic and crisp instructions. He wishes he could tell them not to bother. He’s being wheeled now, a faint sense of motion. Time is distorted. Lights flash above him, strobing. Flashing past quickly, streaking across his closed eyelids. Harry’s hand is still in his, and he wishes he could pull it to his chest or his lips one last time. He can’t. He can’t feel it but he savours the knowledge that it’s there and real and his fingers twitch in a pathetic attempt at a goodbye. 

He feels a surge of sudden panic, the emotion as detached from him as his limbs but he’s aware of it. For months now, he’s thought that he’d made his peace, accepted his lot in life. And now, when it really mattered, when he was breathing his last breaths Louis would have traded anything for one more day, one more week, one more chance to hold Harry. A desperate longing weakly gripped him and he almost started to fight. Almost. He half struggled, pushing experimentally at the haze in his brain and the weakness in his body. Nothing happened. Louis starts to care, starts to wish harder than he’s ever wished in his life. He struggles and prays and begs but just as no one was listening before, no one listens now. All his cold logic and reasons had no meaning in the here and now, breathing in blood and drowning in bile. It wasn’t glamorous or dignified, he was terrified and if he could move, he would sob. But Louis is too far gone, the hospital too late and Harry’s fingers are the only things keeping this dim awakeness in his body. He feels gone already, and even as he realizes, he mourns. 

Harry’s hand is wrenched from his, and he floats up. Darcy is there, the perfect child that is him and Harry and she smiles gently at him. Her eyes, his eyes in her face are wise beyond her young years.  
“Daddy,” she greets him, smiling beatifically. “You came.”  
And despite an agonised longing, a missing, a bitter regret and burning desire to be back, to have one more hour, one more day on earth, one more minute with Harry, he smiles.  
“Of course I did baby.”


End file.
